Man's Best Friend
by Nostalgic-Romance
Summary: Or, Sherlock Holmes is Occasionally a Thoughtful Human Being. After his death, Sherlock sends John a gift. It's a dog. John never expected to love it.


Two and a half weeks after the funeral, John isn't really sure if he'd expected to see the pretty PA with the surgically attached Blackberry at his door again. Contact and association with Mycroft could have stopped with his brother's heart, or could have continued as some level as mutual emotional support in the grieving period. That is, if the Holmes brothers ever tend to their emotions. John isn't sure about that, either.

"Just here for a delivery," She announces, glancing up from her phone to throw him a polite, controlled smile. The hand not occupied with the phone is wrapped loosely in a cord that trails behind her, and off to the side, and John can't see what it's attached to.

"Oh, thank you," He replies, because he can't think of anything else to say. Anthea fished an envelope from her purse, passed it over, and kept her hand held out expectantly. When John does nothing, she breaks her gaze on the screen and looks at him, with an expression that says 'what are you waiting for?'

It was another moment or two before the silence demanded someone to explain themselves, so Anthea said "And the dog. It's for you, too."

"Dog," John repeats.

"Yes, the dog," Anthea explains, as if addressing a particularly slow child.

John pokes his head out the front door, and traces the cord - now identified as a leash - with his eyes. And then John wonders how he missed the gigantic wolf clipped to the end of it.

"Oh," Is all he can manage. It's not that he hasn't seen dogs, before; one of Sherlock's last cases featured a dog not dissimilar to this one. It's not the size of the animal, which would probably intimidate some people, because regardless of the mass, it was sniffing at the feet of a cafe patron with such docility and curiosity that it gave the impression of an impossibly overgrown puppy, not a vicious attack hound.

"And why has Mr. Holmes sent me a Great Dane?" John finally asked.

"I don't know," Anthea sighed. "I suppose there might be a reason in the letter."

"So he didn't tell you... anything. At all."

She looks up again, and her expression is conflicted; she's looking for the soft way to say it; "Mr. _S_ Holmes sent it."

John freezes, looks at the letter in his right hand, at Anthea, at the dog, back at the letter, and then just sort of stares off. "Sherlock sent me a dog. From beyond the grave."

"It would appear so," She says with anther tight, quick smile. "And I've been instructed by Mr. _M _Holmes to make sure you accept."

"Okay," John replies, and numbly reaches for the leash. "Okay, then. Thank you very much."

Without so much as a 'good afternoon', the young woman saunters back to the street, enters her fancy, government funded car, and it drives away. John tugs lightly on the leash, and when the canine seems to notice him, it trots over, stops with its front paws on the front step, and looks at him. It isn't a captivating gaze, or a particularly human one, but it is expressive. 'Are you my master?' the dog asks. 'Will you be my friend? May I come inside, please?'

He shuffles to the side to let the animal through. "Come in, then," He says. The dog does.

"I'll have to ask Mrs. Hudson if she allows pets," John muses, as he shuts the door behind the hound. He unclips its collar from the leash and watches it sniff around the front hall. "I'll need to take it for walks, won't I?"

He starts up the stairs and gives a little whistle, so the dog follows him. John's not sure if he's surprised that it knows to do so.

"Here we are, pup," He says, as he pushes the door to the sitting room open. It sniffs around, as curious as ever, and John hopes that by now he's found anything toxic or otherwise not-dog-food that Sherlock may have left on the floor.

The dog sniffs, and sniffs, and bumps into the coffee table because it was too busy sniffing to look where it was going. It investigates the armchairs, the kitchen, the space by the windows, the hall, and gets as far as the door to Sherlock's room.

John whistles again. "Hey, no! You can't go in there, understand? No. _No._"

The dog sniffs at the door, but after a fourth and final warning of 'no', turns back to see what the fire place smells like, instead.

John slumps into his chair, and twirls the envelope in his fingers. Upon further examination, the handwriting was, indeed, the younger Holmes' and the letter sealed. It felt like a sin to open it – a breach of the last whole part of his friend that he could prove. A letter. But he'd left John a letter in Switzerland, so why another? And why… He glanced at the dog again. Happily sniffing, still. _Why the Great Dane?_ His mind completed.

But if he didn't open it, he wouldn't be able to read it. He'd never know why. He'd never have closure, even if someone knocked on the door tomorrow to say that they'd found both bodies, given Sherlock a proper burial, and the case was closed. Instead of ripping open the top, John wedges his thumb between the flap and body, and gently pulls apart the glue there. He slides out the letter – two pages, handwritten, stationary from the hotel where they were staying – and unfolds it, holding his breath, like it could shatter any moment and steal his friend away all over again.

_John,_ it begins, _If Mycroft passed this letter on to you, I must be dead. For god's sake, don't work yourself up over it, because it's inevitable – either Jim Moriarty or I will be dead within the next twelve hours, so if I'm gone then I hope at least that I took him with me. It would be pointless to reiterate what I said in the letter you should have received upon returning to the hotel, so I'll get right to the bit that's got you stumped, I'm sure._

_Last week, I was at the RSPCA, because I had need of six dead cats. While I was there, I came across a handful of animals that would soon be up for adoption. I really paid no attention at the time, but now, though it is unlike me to admit it, I'm worried about you. On your own, after a while, I imagine it might be somewhat difficult. I've read studies that suggest that companion animals are often beneficial for both physical and psychological health. Pets are proven to improve the conditions of those suffering from depression, anxiety, and post traumatic stress disorder. If I know you well enough (and I do), you'll experience some level of depression after my death, and your PTSD from Afghanistan will resurface, possibly with other, more recent memories, as well. So as I'm here, worrying about you, I remembered this and thought that perhaps you should have a dog. _

_I liked this particular dog. He seemed an intelligent specimen, would be easy to train, and wouldn't cause you much trouble. He is affectionate, which is important in the previously mentioned psychological treatment. I think you will like him, too. I've asked Mycroft to adopt him and have him sent to Baker Street. I don't think that you'll live there for too long after I'm gone, but you won't really be able to move out immediately. _

_Please take care of him. I hope that he will take care of you._

_SH_

John read it over, then flipped back to the first page and read it again, and finally rested it on his lap, quiet. Thinking.

He wasn't sure how he felt. He was sure that this wasn't regular Sherlock behaviour, but he had seen enough people facing their own deaths to know that it changes how they act. Was this one of Sherlock's rare human moments? Was it wrong of him to think it somewhat odd?

But it was good. Having this last confirmation that Sherlock cares was good. It made John happy.

It also made John's chest feel heavy, and his body tense. He didn't cry, not again, but he felt like he was – like he was about to. He buried his face in his hands, and just tried to breathe.

"It's okay," He murmured to himself. "Okay. It's okay. I'm okay. It's all okay."

He inhaled, held it, exhaled, calmed himself, and looked up.

The dog was sat by his feet, looking at him. "What do you want?" John asked, and the dog didn't respond.

It tilted its head a bit, and kept on staring. When John failed to give any indication otherwise, it wedged its muzzle into his lap, between his forearm and the knee on which Sherlock's letter was not resting. The comforting weight of it's head on his leg wasn't exactly expected, and John straightened, just a bit.

The dog took it as an invitation, and leaned further into him, resting a paw on the side of the chair. John was, pathetically enough, surprised.

"Okay," He soothes, and brings up a hand to scratch at its drooping ears. "I'm okay. Good dog. Thank you."

They sit there like that for a long time, until Mrs. Hudson gets home around two in the afternoon.

"Yoohoo!" Her voice drifts up from the hall, followed by the sound of the front door closing. John sits up straight, and the dog turns to look at the door. "I'm back!"

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," He calls back, and stands to go meet her. By the time he's at the stairs, the dog is at his heels, and tumbles gracefully down them to sniff at her shopping bags.

"Ooh!" She exclaims. "Goodness, who's this?"

"Sorry," John replies. "Sorry. Mycroft sent him over, it's a long story."

"I don't mind, dear. What did Mycroft think you'd want with a dog?" Mrs. Hudson asks.

"He's just passing it on, actually, from Sherlock."

And there, her face falls. "Oh, dear."

"There was a letter. I think he thought that if – uh, when – he died, it would help."

"I'm sorry, I'm not sure I understand."

John gives her a half-hearted smile. "Neither do I, really."

A moment or two later, she gathers up her shopping and says "Come in, then. Let's have tea."

John takes some of her bags for her, and follows into 221A, the dog, in turn, following him.

"What's his name?" Mrs. Hudson asks, as she fusses around the kettle.

"I don't know," He admits. "I didn't think to ask."

"Well, that won't do." She turns and crouches as best she can to face the dog. "What do you think, puppy? What should we call you? Hm?"

"What do people usually call their dogs?" John asks. "Spot? Billy? Snickers?"

"No," Mrs. Hudson laughs. "That won't do. He needs a proper name. A person's name. What about Alan?"

"Martin?"

"Mel?"

"Toby?"

"Ooh, Toby. I like that, I must say." The old woman says.

John smiles. "Great. We'll call him Toby." He whistles, and the dog, momentarily distracted by the patting he's receiving from Mrs. Hudson, turns his attention to his master. "You're going to be called Toby, alright? To-by. Toooooobyyyyy. Understand?"

Toby takes a few steps and sits at John's feet. John squats on the floor, and the dog is almost as tall as he his, like this. "Understand?" He repeats.

Toby licks his face. John takes that as a yes.

Not a quarter of an hour later, all three are sat in Mrs. Hudson's sitting room – humans in chairs, with cups of tea, and dog on the rug, with a piece of toast that he nearly devours in two bites.

John is fairly certain he needn't worry about whether she allows pets – his landlady is going to spoil this dog rotten.

That night, John is boring. He spends the afternoon helping Mrs. Hudson fix a broken cabinet in her flat, cooks and eats half of a frozen lasagne, feeds some of it to Toby because he has no dog food, and watches television until ten.

The whole 221 Baker Street family goes out for a walk, up and down the road a few times, and Toby relieves himself on some poor bastard's doorstep.

"Oh god, I'm going to have to do this at least three times a day for the rest of his life," John jokes.

"Imagine – Sherlock would have had a fit!" Mrs. Hudson replies, and they descend into a laughing fit on the sidewalk.

Everyone bids each other goodnight in the foyer and retreats into their respective flats. After he's showered, John instructs Toby to lie down on the rug in 221b's sitting room, gives him a pat on the head, and goes up to bed himself.

He lies there, in the quiet, with his door and window shut tight. He squeezes his eyes shut, too, and tries to sleep. It isn't that he isn't tired – in fact, he was absolutely dead on his feet when they got in from their walk – but he can't sleep.

It's nothing as poetic or conscious as nightmares of sand and gunfire, or images of powerful, swirling waters behind his eyelids. It's only that John is troubled, and restless, and he worries. He twists and turns and kicks at the blankets until slowly, quietly, his waking mind begins to drift off into blackness, and he can finally sleep…

_Click-click-click_

What the ever-loving fuck was that?

John bolts upright in bed and stares at his door, brows furrowed. The click-clacking continues, getting closer and closer until it's just outside, and morphs into a sniffling. He sighs.

"Toby!" John shouts. The noises stop, suddenly, and the dog is still. "Go to bed!"

There is a moment of silence, where he seems to consider it. Maybe he's turning to go back downstairs. Maybe he's going to lie down and sleep in the hall.

Instead, he whines a little. Then he whines a lot, and pretty damn soon he's howling at John's door.

John himself turns over and covers his head with a pillow. He's a grown man, damn it, and a war veteran, no less. He will not be swayed by a crying puppy.

But it goes on, and on, and on, and after a while John would probably rip his eardrums out to make it stop, providing he wouldn't be kept awake instead by the pain of it. And he does feel sorry for the thing – in a new home, and all alone downstairs. If he doesn't take pity, Mrs. Hudson will probably sneak up and invite Toby to sleep in her flat. At the foot of her bed, probably.

So John gets out of bed, and opens the door. The look on the dog's face is almost shocked. _That actually worked? _His expression says. _I can come in?_

"Okay," He says, and finally relents. Toby trots in, looks around, sniffs for a moment, and seems content. John crawls back into bed, shuts out his light, and lies down.

There are a few clicks and a massive weight land on his bed. He almost isn't surprised, and rolls over to face the dog.

"You want to sleep up here?" John asks, expecting no answer. "You really shouldn't. I wish you wouldn't."

Toby just stares back, stretched out on his side.

"Fine. I'm too tired to fuss about it. Goodnight."

He shuts his eyes, and the dog lays his muzzle on his arm. John can only laugh, and sooner or later, they both fall asleep.

Three years later, John wakes up. Toby's familiar weight on the bed has disappeared, and the dog is now staring at the door, growling, with his tail swinging slowly back and forth.

When John moves to get up, Mary stirs. "What is it?" She asks.

"Toby hears something," He explains, and in the proceeding silence, the couple both hear it, too – the quiet squeak of their front door swinging open and soft footsteps in the sitting room.

John grabs his gun from the desk drawer, across the room from the bed.

"Oh, John, please don't," Mary begs.

"It's probably just some kids – a petty criminal or something," He explains. "I'll scare him off, and he'll tell all his little buddies not to come skulking about Baker Street."

John checks the clip and the safety, and holds onto Toby's collar as he eases the bedroom door open. He counts the silent seconds in his head – one, two, three, and let's Toby go.

The dog rockets down the hall and down the stairs, letting out a few low barks. He rounds the corner into the sitting room, and while John is still on the stairs, and can't see the intruder, he certainly hears the shout he lets out.

When he comes into the room, brandishing his firearm, Toby is baying at the robber, front paws up on the kitchen table.

And standing on the table, bent over and holding his head where it hit the hanging lamp, is Sherlock Holmes.

"What the hell is going on?" John shouts.

Sherlock – but it can't be Sherlock, because Sherlock is dead, but it _is_ Sherlock – looks up at him.

"Ah, John," He says, smiling nervously. "I see you kept the dog."


End file.
